Ricky
by TheRedRidingHood
Summary: This is a bit of a drabble. Once again, the focus is on Tim, exploring what little we know of him. We check in with Tim at twelve, a night in the life of the enigmatic Sniper, before he was a sniper. This may become part of a larger idea.Includes some OC's and my version of the Parents Gutterson. Warning for violence, kids fighting, child abuse, drinking and language. R R please


Ricky never started out wanting to be a babysitter, but in a shitty, run down town like Copperton you didn't always get a choice. Money was hard to come by for just about everyone, high ups or low downs and when it came to the a choice between a dollar to spend on a beer or giving the same dollar to some coked up sixteen year old to watch your kid, well…your kid went unattended or they came with you to the bar.

Ricky had dealt with it as best he could, setting up the back room, what should be his office, with some second, maybe third hand couches, a VCR and a TV screen. He had rescued some old toys and videos from his exes place, after she took her kids, his step sons and blew out of Kentucky for Vegas.

It wasn't ideal, but it worked. The parents came to the bar and spent their cash on booze, their kids were nearby, sat in back, at least slightly less likely to die or choke to death than they would be at home.

He knew some day he'd have to put his foot down, install a new rule about no kids allowed, but until someone made him do it or something happened so he had to, he wasn't rushing. Having the kids around tempered the worst of the drunks, not all, but enough.

The only kid the set up didn't work for was the one he worried about the most. Tim was twelve but looked younger, skinny and small of build. That didn't make him a wuss, though. Even Ricky knew the boys rep for being a feral little bastard, that was how come he sat out front of the bar rather than going in the den. Left alone with the others, stuff got explosive.

He didn't pick the fights, they got picked for him but he could and did defend himself. Even at the bar, most nights Tim ended up in the parking lot with some of the other kids, dukes up, crushing noses and busting lips.

Until they came for him, usually a five or six year old sent out by an older kid, he stayed out of the back room. He sat at the corner bar, sipping the sodas Ricky set out for him, quietly, calmly, reading his comics and his sci fi books.

It was an act of defiance, the books. His daddy Joe hated his kid being a reader, being smart, what Joe called a 'nerd'. The kids fighting prowess impressed the man, shit, he made bets on the fights sometimes, backing his kid, but it was tempered by the damn reading. Tim liked science fiction and fantasy, elves and dwarves and space men racing around the place. Ricky had borrowed a few of the books. Ricky was smart, but not like the kid was. Some of the words in the books had more letters than Tim had years alive but he tore through them. He had a backpack he brought with him and he would finish one book and pick out another.

Joe, initially, would ignore the boy, turn up with him as soon as the bar opened, leave him sitting. Sometimes, if he had enough booze in him and the mood was right, or wrong, he would come back over, take the boys books away, make him hustle some out of towners at the pool table, or start in on him about 'reading' and 'thinking'. Copperton was a farming town and as far as Joe was concerned, Tim was gonna be a farmer and farmers didn't need to be able to read quite so much.

if Joe wasn't starting in on the boy, he was starting in one what ever two bit coked up 'step mother' he had been taking home, or indeed, Lissy.

Tim's real mama, Lissy, she came and went as she saw fit, rolling in and out of town with which ever cowboy or rich old bastard promised her a new life and a fresh start. She was around this week hanging out near the juke box hoping to entice one of those men full of beer and promises.

She was as much of a wreck as Joe was, two young by half to be a mother, too drunk or high half the time to remember she was. When she did remember, it was usually just in time to pick a fight with Joe. Sometimes, rarely, the fights were even over the parenting of Tim, or lack thereof. Lissy would insist Joe was doing it wrong, but didn't seem much inclined to offer alternatives. Or help.

Tim looked like her, which hurt. Ricky had been a little in love with Lissy Jones, before she became Lissy Gutterson, had even gotten her to fall in love right back. He didn't find out til later she was screwing Joe at the same time, til she broke up with him, told him she was carrying Joe's kid. Tim had her build, her eyes and hair. His daddy's temper, though.

Tonight looked like it could go either way with the Gutterson clan. Joe was at the pool tables with a pair of out of towners, running his usual scam, playing dumb and sort of clueless. He had some bleach blonde thing hanging off his arm, nuzzling his neck, making a big song and dance of it, tugging at his belt and trying to make him leave. He didn't have too much patience for her, that much was obvious, shrugging her off when he could, shoving her when he couldn't.

He kept glancing over at his kid, at the thick book Tim was reading, giving small, frustrated shakes of his head every time he did.

The rest of the time he was glaring at Lissy, trying to pretend like he wasn't. Some out of towner in a shirt and jeans too new and nice to be from around here was sniffing around her, buying her drinks and laughing too hard at her jokes. Ricky could sense a Gutterson blow out on the horizon.

Tim seemed taken with his book, oblivious to his surroundings, but Ricky watched the boy, caught him watching his folks.

He wasn't a big talker, but he watched people and he never missed a trick. Ricky never needed to warn him if Joe was on a rampage, since Tim tended to know before it happened that it was about to. He would either disappear to god knew where, or stay and face it, depending on his read of Joe's mood.

But it seemed as tonight it wouldn't matter what mood Joe was in. A pink bow, cheap, but made to look nicer, was floating past the bar, heading for Tim. Ricky leaned forwards a little, spotting the cute, chubby little blonde girl attached to it, marching through the bar like she owned the place.

He thought her name might be Annie, or Amy, one of the two, but she was always the messenger, always the one sent out to 'git Tim'

The older boy saw her coming to, and was already putting his books away as she approached.

"Thomas is pickin' on me and Julia, he called me fat and her a slut" Ricky heard Annie/Amy tell Tim "He said if we don't like it you gotta come tell him"

Tim glanced over at his father, who perked up at the sight of Annie/Amy. She was the de-facto fight organiser, everyone knew it, so if she was around something was gonna go down.

Joe met his kids eye, gave an affirming nod.

"Tell him meet me outside" Tim told her, draining his soda and slamming it on the bar.

Annie/Amy ran off as Joe let out a holler, tossing his pool cue on the table.

"Sorry fellas" he was telling his opponents "This game's a dud, you want to bet on something, bet on that little fucker" he jabbed a finger towards his kid as Tim headed outside.

The out of towners shrugged, grabbed their beers and headed out, just behind a pack of kids eager for blood. Ricky gave it a few minutes before he followed. When a fight kicked off, there was a rush on the bar before folks headed outside. Ricky served everyone asking, then called out to Raylene, his single, bored employee to cover the rest while he went outside too.

Both boys were seasoned fighters, warming up before they started swinging for each other. Tim's opponent, Thomas, was the same age as Tim but he actually looked it, taller and stockier than the tow headed Gutterson boy, probably in the first rushes of puberty if those suddenly gangly arms were anything to judge on.

Joe was already running the book, stood up in the back of his pick up and calling out, taking bets on the boys. The only solidarity he ever showed his kid was backing him, and as the boys warmed up and bets rolled in, Joe was yelling to Tim throwing out drunken and confused tips Tim had learned to ignore a long time ago.

The old drunks formed a rough circle, Thomas dad whispering something to his own son, throwing looks and muttered insults towards Joe, who had strode into the middle of the circle. In one hand, he clutched a wad of cash, the other was empty, held open to silence the crowd.

Once upon a time, Joe was a handsome, charismatic kind of guy. Ricky remembered him from high school, every teacher in his pocket and every girl hanging off've him. When he wanted attention, he got it. Even now, not yet thirty but bloated and aged beyond his years, Joe could hold a room in the palm of his hand.

He named the fighters, named the stakes, then retreated to let the fight begin.

To Ricky's knowledge, Tim and Thomas hadn't fought at the bar before. Thomas looked mean, small features in a fat face set in a permanent sneer. He sized up Tim, snorting derisively as the smaller kid watched him.

Tim's fists came up, arms held in close, his feet finding the right stance automatically.

There was a moment of silence, breathless anticipation as Thomas raised his own hands and they circled each other.

The gathered drunks watched, waiting. Then Joe's voice called from somewhere "KICK HIS ASS TIMMY BOY"

The boys rushed each other, Thomas putting everything he had in his size and strength, trying to make up for a lack of technical skill. He threw two big wild hay makers, left then right swooshing through the air, but Tim ducked them both and slammed two scrawny but directed fists into the bigger boys gut. Thomas made a noise as the air was beaten out of him, but didn't go down, grabbing Tim and swinging him around. The other kid fell in the dirt to a chorus of boos from the gathered crowd, but Thomas wasn't about fighting clean, and tried to straddle the smaller boy and pound his face. Tim rolled out and got back on his feet before Thomas could even get near, rushing in close and busting the other boys lip wide open. Thomas squealed sort of like a pig would, tried to land more blows but Tim went after the lip again, blood spraying as he widened the gash even more with a vicious and deadly jab. Thomas threw himself down, arms up covering his face and it was done. Tim backed up, hands up and open, glancing around as if for confirmation.

Joe was there to give it, stepping in and grabbing his kids arm, raising it like the boy had won the championship belt.

There was some moaning and bitching about how fast it was, about the money lost, Thomas' father hollering about a re-match but he and his kid were ignored as the drunks followed Joe and Tim back inside. Thomas' dad tended to his son, hauling him towards the car, but they were already forgotten.

Back inside Tim had been sat up on the bar, a champ, Joe leaning beside him as he celebrated, counted his cash. The drunks were cheering, those that had won, a few others were sulking into their beers. Ricky got back behind the bar, got some ice in a bar towel for Tim's knuckles, a fresh soda as the remaining kids slunk back to the den, the nights entertainment all done.

Tim was relishing in the positive attention from his dad, the older man shadow boxing with his kid as if to prove to anyone paying attention why the boy was so skilled. Tim was smiling, a rare sight, and for a while, everything was nice.

Then came Lissy.

She hadn't ventured outside with the others when the fight started. She had been inside, with her drinks and the single guy paying her any attention, and even he had gotten bored. She wandered over to Joe, initially mistaking his good mood and handful of cash for something she could take advantage of. The bleached blond that had been hanging off Joe managed a dirty look and muttered insult, but everyone in town knew that if Lissy came sniffing around Joe, you steered clear.

"Aaaw baby" she was smiling, nodding to Ricky for a drink "What are we celebratin'?"

Joe was smiling at her, Tim gone very still behind them both.

"The boy won another fight. We ought to go professional with him, he could take us to 'Vegas! What do you think, boy?" Joe glanced over at Tim "You'd be a featherweight but you could kick ass!"

Lissy's expression changed, that sweet smile turning to a small, confused frown "He's fightin'?" she asked, her tone turning hard "Again? And you're still bettin' on him?"

Joe's mood shifted just as quickly and Tim slid down from the bar, gathering up his back pack, ready to go.

"Bitch, he can say no to fightin', he wants. But long as he does it I might as well make a buck. I gotta feed and clothe him, don't I? Where you think that money comes from? You and what ever dick you're ridin' now ain't doin' shit for him!" Joe snapped.

"Why don't you feed and clothe him by gettin' a fuckin' job" she slammed a palm into his chest, her voice slurring just a little "like a real man, 'stead of makin' him earn his own keep by fightin?!"

"You see fuckin' jobs fallin' off trees?!" Joe snapped back, both their voices climbing in volume "You want his life to be so good why don't you take him, huh? You know how to sniff out a fat wallet, find some sugar daddy to raise him!" he was off the bar stool now, looming over her, but she wasn't backing down.

"Oh fuck you Joe, you're the one got me pregnant at fifteen" she rolled her eyes, side stepping the question of her taking her own son as smoothly as she ever did "You don't get to dictate to me how I spend my own time"

"Then neither do you" Joe reminded her.

"I get to tell you how to raise my boy!" She snapped.

"You don't get to do shit, we're leavin'" Joe shoved past her, grabbed Tim's arm, hard enough to bruise, pulling him out of the bar.

"No, no, let's do this then" Lissy was on one now "You fuckin' want me to take him, he can come with me" she trailed after them, out of the bar, Ricky calling to Raylene again, then following.

"Fuck off, Lissy" Joe was calling back, swaying on his feet as he headed for his car "Don't come in here with that"

"I'm serious. You want I should take him, I'll take him, find him a real daddy, a real _man_ to take care of him" she had caught up, reaching for Tim, but Joe shoved the kid aside, stepping in to her.

Tim fell in the dirt with a grunt, but he was ignored, picking himself up and moving away.

"A real man?" Joe was asking, incredulous "Bitch, who are you to fuckin' talk!"

"Don't call me bitch, dickless, get out of my fuckin' way, let me at my boy!" Lissy was screaming.

She brought her hand back, landed a ringing slap on Joe's cheek. He took it like a champ, shoving her hard but she came right back, swinging again.

"Fuckin' loser!" she was screaming at him.

"Where you gonna take him?!" Joe was screaming right back, fending her off "Huh? You gonna get a motel room with some trick, make him wait in the car while you earn a nights stay?"

Lissy had just enough pride left to look galled at this, swinging for him again "Least I might offer him a life! How often you chase off the debtors, Joe? Huh? How often are you fightin' just to keep a roof over his head?!"

"I wouldn't have to fight so hard if you didn't turn up every six weeks and clean me out! Some john leaves you high and dry so you decide to take a withdrawal from the bank of Joe!" he snapped back "Go get on your back and earn your own cash, slut!"

"I!" she shoved him to punctuate every word "Aint! No! Hooker!"

"You remember why you let me in your pants in the first place? Cos I bought you a soda!" Joe snarled at her "Fuckin' slut" he spat at her feet, turning to go.

She let out a sort of animal shriek, leaping at him. Ricky was rushing forwards, pulling them apart as they began swinging at one another. He shoved Lissy towards her car, a shining white ford she was more proud of than anything.

Joe was calling her every ugly word under the sun, striding towards his own pick up. Lissy called a few back, climbing into her car, slamming the door. She pulled out, turning left at the road, Joe hauling off and turning right.

After a moment, Lissy's ford came back, blasting past the bar and chasing after Joe.

Ricky watched them go, staring at the dust from their peeling out and shaking his head. Two people like that were explosive together, like mixing the wrong chemicals in a beaker. So long as you kept them separate, everything was fine, but once you mixed them….damn.

Ricky rubbed his eyes, tired. As in love with Lissy as he had been, he was pretty sure he had dodged a bullet. She was crazier than a bag of rabid raccoons. He turned to head back inside and saw Tim standing back from the fight, clutching his back pack, staring at the empty spaces where his folks had just been.

They had forgotten him. Again.

* * *

Ricky's trailer wasn't more than ten minutes walk from the bar and at this point, Tim probably knew his way blind folded.

When the last of the drunks cleared out and Raylene was gone, Ricky used the far superior grill in the bar to fry up some burgers and fries, snatching a handful of sodas.

Tim had already been through the VHS collection by the time Ricky got home with the late supper/early breakfast, picking out some goofy horror movie for them to watch.

The first time Tim got left at the bar he had been three, and Lissy and Joe had gone to 'rekindle the romance', disappearing for four days.

Ricky had been with a girlfriend at the time, a sweet young woman willing to hang out with a toddler while Ricky ran the bar, both of them joking about taking the boy and blowing out of town, starting somewhere new as a family. Right as the talks got serious, as Ricky remembered how nice it was coming home to a cooked meal, to a smiling kid happy to see him, was when Joe came back, tail between his legs, Lissy having cleared him out and taken off again.

Since then, Tim ended up staying with Rick at least once every few months, usually when Lissy was back in town. Joe got distracted real easy when she was around.

He usually showed up within a day or so, never bothering with an excuse or reason for his absence. Until he did, though, Ricky liked to think Tim found some measure of calm and peace at the trailer.

They ate in semi silence, talking around mouths full of burger meat, making fun of the film, the characters, the goofy special effects.

After a time, he was back to his books though, nose buried deep within the pages, following the adventure of some barbarian hero. Ricky left him to it, heading off to prepare for bed. By the time he was done, showering off the smell of the bar and brushing his teeth, Tim was asleep on the couch, his book on the floor where it fell. Ricky covered him with a blanket, turned off the TV and the lamps, and headed to his room.

* * *

Ricky woke to the sound of gunshots, tried not to panic while his brain caught him up on the previous nights events. Lissy and Joe had been around, Tim had been forgotten again and had slept on the couch. That meant the gunshots were him.

Ricky left him to it, the shots acting as a sort of impromptu alarm. He got out of bed, got dressed, was pleasantly surprised to find Tim had already brewed up some coffee.

The boy was an early riser, up with the dawn, before hand sometimes. He was a farm kid, technically, though Joe's farm hadn't been functional for at least a good few years now, and getting up early was in his nature. Ricky, working in a bar, was more used to late awakenings, sometimes to rolling out of bed about ten minutes before he was due to open the bar. That didn't happen when Tim stayed over.

Ricky had panicked the first time he saw the boy handling a gun, a precocious six year old picking up the rifle that was longer than he was tall, but Tim was a natural.

Ricky followed him up, climbing up onto the roof of the trailer using the ladder that had been set up. Tim was laid on his belly on the roof, the rifle resting on sandbags he had made himself after reading in a book about snipers. Some ways back, further back every time he came over, he had set up tin cans on posts and his morning habit was shooting every single one. He did the same at home, explaining the exponential leaps in skill he took between visits with Ricky.

Ricky stood for a while, feeling the mid morning sun, smelling the soil as it began to heat up.

He watched Tim shoot, chuckling at the distant 'ping' and faint dark tin can shape flying into the air from some distance away. Natural didn't cover it. Tim was deadly.

"You figure that's your way out?" Ricky found himself asking "You could go pro, you know? Be one of them folks shoots for sport, wins medals in the Olympics"

"I wanna join the Army" Tim told him, lining up another shot, falling silent as he took it.

They were the first words Ricky remembered him saying since some time the previous night. He was like that. He didn't say anything, then when he did you tended to take it seriously.

"You could do well" Ricky had to admit "Might be a shame to see a smart kid end up as a name on a wall somewhere though"

"If I do it right I wont end up on any wall" Tim pointed out "And I plan to do it right"

Ricky thought about it, realised it made a degree of sense "Alright" he agreed "But you know you gotta make it six more years 'fore you sign up?"

"four if he signs the papers. Can't see combat til I'm eighteen but I'll be out of here" Tim was weird hearing such serious talk coming out of the kid. Saying he looked younger than 12 was one thing. The truth of it was, he could pass for eight or nine, and Ricky knew sometimes he did if the mood struck, usually when a cop caught him up to something he oughtn't be doing.

Ricky frowned "Where'd you learn that?" he asked.

"Went to the recruitin' office and asked" Tim told him, matter of fact as you like.

A gunshot rang out and another tin can died quickly.

"You gotta be real good to make it in the army" Ricky said "Don't put all your eggs in one basket. You join the army, you can't ever miss"

Tim clucked his tongue, shifted his position, moved the gun. Ricky followed the line of sight and saw a pair of sneakers dangling from a tree branch, much further back behind the tin cans. Tim rolled to his knees, raising the gun, taking aim.

He waited, breathing, Ricky prepared to say nothing when he missed.

But then the shot rang out and one of the sneakers broke free, tumbling back and away. Tim hadn't shot the shoe, he had shot the laces that bound it to the branch, and he had meant to.

He turned to Ricky "I don't miss"

* * *

It was an hour before the bar opened when Joe finally turned up. Ricky and Tim were still on the roof of the trailer, basking in the late afternoon son, Ricky teaching Tim how to strip down and clean a gun.

The dust the pick up threw up from the roads was as good a sign as any that someone was approaching and on the sight of it, both of them climbed down quickly. Joe never picked up Tim in a good mood, and based on how he threw the car around the bend into the parking lot, today was no exception.

Tim was ready, back across his shoulders before Joe even pulled up. Ricky stood nearby, not quite with the kid, since Joe didn't take kindly to that, but close, sipping a beer, a spare one already in hand. As Joe strode over, Ricky called out and tossed him the can, offering a kind smile.

It did some of the trick, Joe's anger fading from his face at least as he popped the tab and drained the tin.

He regarded his son, watching him almost suspiciously, like he was waiting for Tim to do or say something. Joe looked puffy, bloated, hungover. He had a hicky on his neck and the smell of Lissy's perfume and too much whisky came off him so strong that Ricky thought he might gag. He had spent the night with her, again, and didn't look like he'd come through it well.

Tim said nothing, squinting in the sunlight.

"Git in the truck" was all Joe said, and the boy froze.

Joe had certain phrases and ways of saying them that translated pretty well if you spoke his language. 'Git in the truck' was code that meant Tim was in for a whooping.

"What I done?" the boy asked quietly.

Generally speaking, he hadn't done anything. Chances were that looking as much as he did like his mother was his only crime that day.

"Lissy gone?" Ricky asked carefully.

"Took my winnings" Joe nodded "She took your money, boy" he glared at Tim, as if his mother stealing the money his father had earned betting on Tim's fight was somehow his fault.

Ricky almost laughed at that, at Joe calling it Tim's money. Tim would barely have seen a dime of that cash. He'd have been given enough to buy groceries for a week or so. Joe talked like Lissy had stolen the boys college fund.

"Git in the truck" Joe repeated.

Ricky glanced at Tim. The boy shook his head "I wont"

"Boy, you git" Joe insisted, stepping closer, dragging his feet on purpose so some dust billowed up.

For Joe, it was like a challenge, like spitting at a mans feet. He was spoiling for a fight and he was gonna have one with whoever crossed him.

"I aint done nothin'" Tim said, his voice quiet, but firm "Why I gotta git?"

Joe stepped close again, this time with a clenched fist coming up at his side. Ricky started forwards but Joe was ready for him "You move Ricky I'll bury you" he said, quick and quiet but deadly serious.

With Joe, it was hard to take any threat lightly. There were rumours, only rumours but prevalent ones about folks who crossed him disappearing and never turning up again. The least he might do was beat Ricky's ass. Joe was a big guy, tall and muscular, a farm boy born and reared. Like Tim, he had been fighting his whole life, like Tim, learning his craft at home, defending against his psychotic old man. Karl Gutterson, Tim's grandpa, was a cruel man. Joe was Joe for a reason.

Tim had half turned his head, as if to acknowledge Ricky's attempt.

"Let him stay here a while, Joe" Ricky tried "I was gonna make supper, I can make enough for three. Come on man" he tried the kinder approach "We can open some beers and lament lost loves" he tried a smile "You know Rachel called me the other day, says the kids need braces and I gotta pay for em!" he

Joe returned it, but his was cruel and short lived as he turned back to the kid.

"Boy…you git" he did that start-stop-step forwards again, kicking up dust, this time directly into Tim's face.

The boy didn't move so Joe moved him, reaching over and grabbing his skinny upper arm.

He hauled so hard the boy came off his feet, tossing him into the dust and looming over, that clenched fist and crooked elbow ready to go "Git in the fuckin' truck"

Tim glared, still defiant, even with skin scraped off his elbows from the dirt and tears filling his eyes. Joe clucked his tongue, sounding like Tim had back up on the roof, stepping into the kid and hauling him upright by the collar.

He marched him towards the car, Tim on his tip toes trying to keep up as his father shook him like a rag doll. Ricky followed half heartedly, still offering suppers and beers if Joe would just let Tim stay. Joe ignored him, slapping the kid around the head even as he tossed him into the pick up.

He walked around the other side, climbing in and firing up the engine, as if Ricky wasn't even there.

Ricky watched them go, watched Tim in the passenger seat. The kid was still glaring and defiant his lip quivering, watching his father as the man started ranting and raving. Tim said something back and was rewarded with another slap upside the head, but he didn't back down.

Ricky watched them go, feeling helpless, the dust drifting into his eyes as Joe hauled off.

He knew, though, that he would see Tim again. Maybe not that night, but the one after? Almost certainly. Joe was many things, but above everything, he was a poor drunk.

He would get thirsty, and he couldn't afford a sitter any more now than he ever could.

Tim would be back until the day he got old enough and big enough to refuse. Until then, Ricky would look out for him.

Nobody else was going to.


End file.
